Molinicos

The church bell strikes noon and the only reply is a tractor gearing down on the steep cement slope that doubles as Calle San Sebastián. In Molinicos, population 824, the echo has space to breathe. At eight hundred and twenty metres above sea level, the air thins just enough for the scent of pine resin and wild thyme to carry cleanly through the streets. Nobody rushes to lunch; the day is already long up here.

Stone, Slope and Silence

Houses the colour of weathered parchment climb the ridge in irregular terraces. Their walls are thick, their windows small; winter nights still drop below freezing and summer sun can top forty degrees. The architecture is practical, not pretty, yet the overall effect is oddly photogenic—especially in late afternoon when the western light turns the plaster the shade of pale sherry. British visitors expecting flower-decked balconies will be disappointed; laundry lines and satellite dishes rule instead. Accept that and the village starts to work on you.

There is no town square in the usual Spanish sense. What passes for the centre is a widening in the road beside the 1970s ayuntamiento where two benches sit under a plane tree. Elderly men occupy them in strict rotation, caps pulled low, canes wedged between work boots. Attempt a greeting in phrase-book Spanish and you’ll usually get a measured reply, delivered with the unhurried vowels of Castilla-La Mancha. English is virtually absent; even the young waitresses at Bar Los Olivos rely on smiles, gestures and the single word “OK” delivered with a question mark.

Forests that Pay the Rent

Head east past the last houses and the tarmac gives way to a dirt track signed “PR-A 252: Ruta de los Molinos”. Within ten minutes the pine canopy closes overhead and the temperature drops five degrees. Carrasco and laricio pines—species normally found further north—thrive on these silica-rich slopes. Their nuts once paid local school fees; now the trade is mostly memory, though you’ll still spot villagers beating branches with long poles in late October. Walk another twenty minutes and the path crosses the dry stone channel of the Endrinales riverbed. Except after heavy rain there is barely a trickle, yet the pools that remain are crystal clear and cold enough to numb a sore ankle after the stony descent.

Serious hikers can continue south-east along the ridge towards the abandoned hamlet of Casa Paco, a six-hour round trip with 500 m of ascent. The route is way-marked but don’t trust the paint splashes entirely; download the free map from the regional tourism board before you leave UK Wi-Fi. Mobile coverage is patchy once you drop into valleys, and the only emergency landmark is the occasional concrete electricity post marked “IB-4402”.

What Passes for a Menu

Back in the village, lunch options are limited to two premises and a vending machine in the petrol station. Bar Restaurante Los Olivos opens at 13:30 sharp and stops serving when the guisado runs out—often around 15:00. The handwritten board offers gazpacho manchego, a game-and-pasta stew that has nothing to do with Andalusian gazpacho. Ask for the conejo (rabbit) version if you like picking bones; otherwise request “solo verduras” and you’ll get a perfectly serviceable mushroom and noodle broth. A plate costs €9 and includes a quarter-litre of local red wine that tastes better than it should. Vegetarians should not expect tofu; the alternative is migas—fried breadcrumbs with grapes and scraps of chorizo that can be omitted if you smile nicely.

If you prefer British-cut beef, the owners keep entrecôte in the freezer for the occasional French motor-home crowd. Chips are hand-cut and arrive soggy with olive oil: think rustic steak frites rather than Berni Inn. Pudding is usually a slice of almendrado, a dense almond cake that keeps without refrigeration and partners well with instant coffee.

When the Village Lets its Hair Down

Festivity is seasonal. The third weekend of January belongs to San Sebastián, patron saint and excuse for three nights of fireworks that scatter pine needles across the church atrium. Temperatures can dip to –8 °C; the British trick is to join the procession at 18:00, duck into the bar for a brandy-laced coffee, then re-emerge for the bonfire. In August the village swells to perhaps double its size as second-generation migrants return from Madrid and Valencia. The plaza hosts a foam party one evening, an event that feels surreally Ibiza until you notice toddlers in pants dancing beside teenagers. Visitors are welcome; buy a €5 plastic cup from the PTA stall and you can refill sangria all night.

Getting There, Staying Over

The closest airports are Alicante and Murcia, both served by easyJet and Ryanair from regional UK bases. Motorway tolls are minimal once you leave the coastal strip; budget €25 for fuel each way. The final 60 km from Albacete twist through the Sierra del Segura on the CM-412—spectacular but not for nervous drivers: sheer drops, no barriers, the occasional goat.

A smarter plan is to overnight at Camping Río Mundo, five kilometres north in the neighbouring village of Riópar. British motor-home forums rave about the Dutch owner’s command of sign language and the free cinnamon buns handed out at 09:00. Pitches are shaded, toilets are spotless, and the nightly rate is €21 including 6 A electricity. From the campsite it’s a 15-minute drive up to Molinicos for morning coffee and a wander; you can be back down the valley before the sun turns the tarmac sticky.

The Honest Verdict

Molinicos will not change your life. It offers no fairy-tale views, no Michelin stars, no souvenir shops. What it does provide is a functioning mountain community prepared to tolerate outsiders so long as they park straight and don’t photograph the old blokes without asking. Come for one night and you may leave after lunch; stay for three and the rhythm starts to feel sensible. The Sierra keeps its own time, and the village simply follows the beat.